


you’re simply not in the pink, my dear

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Both at once, Demiromantic, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holding Hands, I repeat, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romantic Friendship, Teasing, but now they do!, hand holding, however you wanna see it really, they both know of their mutual love but don’t talk about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: One evening sometime after the Little Armageddon That Couldn’t, Aziraphale broaches the topic of touch.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 112
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	you’re simply not in the pink, my dear

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Queen’s “I’m Going Slightly Mad.”  
> The characterization here is that basically, they love each other and know they love each other and they’re comfortable, but they’re still exploring how they’re allowed to express it now that Heaven and Hell are off their backs. Softness ensues.

They were spending more time at Crowley’s flat, lately.

The thing was that, before Armagedidn’t, if anyone found Crowley at the bookshop, there was a logical excuse easily in place: that he was there to tempt Aziraphale and such. Perfectly demonic activities at play, and definitely not for the fantastic wine selection and even better company.

However, Aziraphale at Crowley’s flat was much more difficult to excuse, as there wasn’t an innocent explanation that their bosses would accept for an angel at a demon’s home. So, while it wasn’t exactly unheard of, the angel was typically at one of Crowley’s residences over the years just often enough to see it once before the demon moved on to something new.

All that was out of the window, now.

Crowley’s Mayfair flat was honestly one of his favorites, and the one to last the longest (if we discount the Italian villa he had between 1603 and 1762 that he forgot he owned immediately after buying it). He liked having houses (or lodges, condos, palaces, what have you) because it made him feel grounded, but none of them tended to last long. Either he’d get an order from Hell to move along, or he’d get bored sooner rather than later, and sometimes his neighbors started to wonder why Mr. (or Ms. Or Mrs. or Mx.) Anthony J. Crowley hadn’t aged a day in the past sixty years.

Still, his flat here had lasted him since before World War II, and he was rather fond of it. He kept it clean and minimalist, but there were enough personal touches, accoutrements from over the ages that he’d collected or sought out after the fact, to make it…well, maybe comfortable isn’t the word. But familiar.

After a day spent out in the countryside for a picnic (Aziraphale was a touch obsessed with them, now that he felt it safe to be seen fraternizing in public, and Crowley was more than happy to indulge him), they returned to his place for drinks.

And when Aziraphale was there, then yes, the flat was very comfortable indeed.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale commented idly as Crowley handed him a glass filled with amber liquid, shimmering molten as the angel lifted it to his nose to drink in the aroma prior to the liquid itself.

“Whatever,” Crowley replied, as usual, before joining him on the sofa – opposite end – and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Crumbs of dirt flecks landed on the various magazines and he knew without seeing that Aziraphale was probably looking at his boots very pointedly.

Crowley glanced over to the angel to make some snarky comment about it, but the words died when he saw Aziraphale’s expression. Rather than the expected disapproving, pursed lips, it was his Deep In Thought face, the one that usually meant he was fretting over something unnecessarily and would take far too long to voice his concerns. That was something Crowley had been trying to get him out of the habit of, but it was a millennia-long habit to break.

“So, angel,” he said a touch too loud to get his attention, leaning closer. “What’s on your mind? Did you have to sell a book recently or something?”

“Hmm?” The angel blinked as though awaking from a trance to look over at Crowley’s arched eyebrow – sans glasses, as was typical when they were alone nowadays. “Oh! Oh, no, nothing like that, thankfully. Just lost in thought.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “ _I_ know that. _You_ know I know that. So how about you stop hurricane-ing in your head and do some thinking aloud, eh?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips – there we go, that’s the expression he was looking for – as though Crowley had said something positively asinine. “No need to be petulant.”

“Mmm. Petulant, sure. That’s me, always _petulant_.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I also know you’re stalling. Out with it, angel.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated, then put down his glass to face Crowley properly. “I had a…thought.”

Crowley groaned. “Yes, I _know_.”

“A…a question, rather.”

Crowley leaned back into the couch cushions. “Are you going to ask it this century?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “The point is that I, well, I read this book-“

“Of _course_ , it was a book,” he mumbled.

“-called _The_ _Five Love Languages_.”

“Oh.” He sat up straighter. “I’ve read that one.”

Aziraphale paused to lift his eyebrows, looking pleased. “Oh, have you? I thought you said you didn’t read.”

“That was before Armageddon,” Crowley replied simply, taking a sip of his drink and waving the other hand in the air aimlessly.

This had become a well-worn phrase since the event in question’s failure. Little confessions that he’d never made when it was important to appear demonic came to light. And demons definitely don’t read relationship-based self-help books, and they don’t take four sugars in their tea, and they don’t own the _Toy Story_ films on Blu-Ray.

The angel didn’t know about that last one, but time would tell.

“Well, what did you think of it?” Aziraphale was asking.

Crowley shrugged. He had read it sometime shortly after it came out, but it hadn’t made much of an impression on him. Felt a little called out on the whole acts-of-service thing, but otherwise… “Seems just like the kind of things human like to do, going around, trying to categorize and define, ya know, that thing.”

“Love?”

“Yes, yes, that,” he replied, waving his hand around again as though banishing the word. “They’re bloody curious creatures, humans. Never stop trying to question why they feel the things they do and how things work. The _science_ of it; trying to box it in with some convenient lists and groupings.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed with a teasing lilt. “Wonder where they got that _curious_ nature from.”

“Shut it. You know what I mean.”

“I think the idea,” Aziraphale responded with the air of one who thinks you’ve said something he disagrees with but is still going to be polite about it, “was to help people understand that those they love may express love in different ways. That not everyone does it the same way, exactly, and to broaden that human connection between each other. Less trying to understand the concept itself, or even saying love can only be expressed in those five ways, but as a means of communicating with one another in a viable, mutually agreeable manner.”

“I mean, sure,” Crowley conceded. “That too. But what exactly is your point with all this?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said softly, “We love each other, of course, yes?”

Crowley spluttered on his drink, caught off-guard. “Er, I mean, we haven’t said it aloud,” Crowley pointed out after a moment, when he could look Aziraphale in the eyes again. “But duh, sure, if you wanna use that word for it.”

“Right,” the angel agreed, nodding as though acquiescing to a business agreement. “Well, I noticed when I read it that the only one of the five languages outlined that we don’t really, er, engage in was – well, we’ve never been much for words of affirmation, I suppose, though lately, we have a bit more, what with Upstairs and Downstairs and all. And gifts; you’re always bringing me books or chocolates and I’m always bringing you wine and such hullabaloo. As for quality time, we have 6000 years of that, I suppose. Acts of service-“

“Yes, yes, I get it.”

“Right,” he repeated, looking askance. “Well. Of the five, the only one we don’t ever do is…touch.”

Crowley folded his arms and considered this. He had noticed that, too, when he read it, but hadn’t contemplated any further beyond the simple _noticing_. “I mean, I guess?” he said, “but we do sometimes, especially back in the day when human society was less touch averse. We’d, you know, link arms and such.”

“We did, but that’s not what I mean,” Aziraphale continued. “That was purely platonic in the age. I mean, ah, physical affection. Romantically, by modern standards. Like what people who are in love do.”

Crowley felt a sardonic grin stretching across his face. “Are you propositioning me, angel?”

Aziraphale looked scandalized. “Crowley! Heavens, no, you snake!”

“Elaborate for me, then,” Crowley replied, crossing his ankles, and folding his arms behind his head in lax amusement at the angel’s anxiousness. Why he would be nervous after all they’d been through, he had no idea. “Talk to me like I’m stupid.”

“So, like normal?” the bastard replied with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wow. Uncalled for.”

“You set yourself up for it.”

“Fair. You were saying?”

“Oh, ah, well, you see…” Aziraphale dithered before saying in a rush, “I was wondering if you perhaps would be amenable to exploring the dimensions of that particular expression of affection with our, er, hands.”

Crowley felt an overwhelming surge of fondness, almost – but not quite – enough to drown out the amusement. His ridiculous, _adorable_ angel. The absurd creature. Oh, how he adored him. “Are you telling me,” Crowley drawled, far too gentle to be the teasing tone he aimed for, “that you’ve been wanting to hold my hand since the 90s and it took you almost 30 years to tell me?”

“Um. Yes?” He looked to Crowley anxiously.

The demon melted, sitting forward, speaking softly. “You know you could have held my hand at any time. You didn’t even need to ask. I would never have complained about it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to if you didn’t also, dear. You know I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and besides, consent is very important!” he finished indignantly.

“You’re telling _me_ that?” Crowley said, smirking. “Demons are the ones with contracts. Your old side just impregnated virgins without asking first!”

“Ah, well. God and Her mysterious ways.” The angel looked uncomfortable, still, and that just wouldn’t do.

“Aziraphale. Angel. Look at me, would you?” He waited until he had his eye contact. “I want to hold your hand, too.”

Aziraphale finally, finally smiled back at him, tentative but soft. “Do you really?”

“Yes.” Crowley set aside his glass and held out a hand, eyebrows lifted in silent question. Aziraphale answered silently as well, expression positively alight as they curled their fingers around the other’s, palms flush, like their hands were made to hold the other’s.

Crowley never thought too much about touch. Lust was one of the sins, of course, but that wasn’t his department, and even if it was, he probably would’ve found a way to slither out of it. Besides, touch as being inherently sexualized was a modern misconception. Nonetheless, it wasn’t important to him to touch or be touched, and he’d never sought it out. He didn’t hate it, though; he just didn’t think about it. In ages now past, when touch was more common and less socially improper, he’d engaged as was necessary, kissing women’s fingers and clapping shoulders and embracing rare human acquaintances (friends, he never let himself think). It was simply a thing.

However, as he held Aziraphale’s hand for the first time with intention, watching the angel beam at him, he realized that maybe he liked touching more than he’d thought.

Or maybe he just liked things that made his angel happy.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly in that way of his that made Crowley feel like he needed to scrape himself off the floor. “I know we don’t usually say it, but I do love you.”

Crowley gave him a half smile. “You great sap,” he replied, fondly rolling his eyes. With one swift movement, he lifted their clasped hands and planted a small kiss to the knuckles of his angel, like a suitor in an Austen novel. “Angel.” Crowley glanced up at him through his eyelashes; Aziraphale looked back like he’d handed his angel the stars.

“Crowley…” he breathed. He pressed his lips together, still grinning. “Who, exactly, is the sap, again?”

Crowley let their hands settle between them on the sofa, leaning back as casually as he could without loosening his grip. “Still you. Just did it to appease your Victorian sensibilities.”

“Mmm, of course. Not because you’re secretly a romantic?”

“You slander me with your words, angel!”

“Hardly. It was a compliment, my dear.”

Crowley rolled his eyes again, hoping it might prove a point that his words were failing at. After a beat, he let his expression soften again. “Angel…you know I meant it, right? If you want to hold my hand, you can. Consider this my consent to, anytime you like.”

Aziraphale looked close to tears. “Oh, dearest…”

Crowley squirmed, tearing his gaze away as he felt his face heating, feeling disgustingly _emotional._ It was _gross._ “Alright, enough of this, please, or I’m going to melt and stain the couch. New subject. Anything, I beg of you.”

“Alright,” the angel complied with a small chuckle. After a moment to gather himself, he spoke. “So. You read books, then? Tell me which ones.”

Crowley smirked. Books, of course. He suddenly had the impression that, not so long ago, he would’ve acted annoyed. Waved the angel off with some snarky remark, never admit to anything further than he already had. But he didn’t have to do that anymore. They didn’t have to pretend that they didn’t, ya know, _that,_ each other, and now they were holding hands and it was a little sweaty, and he realized he felt _safe._

“Well, I’ve always been fond of Samuel Clemens,” Crowley admitted, leaning back. “Er, Mark Twain, I guess. Pennames, you know. _Prince and the Pauper_ was my favorite. Reminded me of _The Comedy of Errors_.”

"Ah, comedies, of course!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I should have guessed as much. Though that one does have quite a dark undertone, don’t you think? So, what are your thoughts on…”

As conversation ambled into the night, they didn’t let go of each other hands until it really became impractical with how clammy their skin was getting. Crowley compromised by swinging his legs up over the angel’s lap and they continued talking as though this was just a thing they did now. Aziraphale absentmindedly stroked Crowley’s ankles and shins, beaming contentedly, as he chattered on about symbolism and character arcs and other nonsense.

It was…well. _Nice._

~

A week later, Aziraphale asked for his consent a second time, and Crowley said yes, obviously. Their first kiss was tender and soft and everything it was in movies (Buttercup and Westley had nothing on them). Aziraphale took Crowley’s consent to mean he could attack his demon with forehead and cheek kisses whenever he wished after that.

“I feel accosted, angel,” he complained after a particularly _nauseatingly sweet_ peck to the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

“You like it, though,” the angel commented plainly, and Crowley stuttered before settling on glaring as a reply.

The thing was, Crowley discovered he _did_ like touch, so long as it was with Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda just wanted to project a bit on Crowley with my own thoughts about touch. There’s nothing wrong being touch averse, loving touch, or being somewhere between. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
